Reconnectiong
by Lilec Hamira Amdciez
Summary: Some years after the Tournament, twenty-something-year-old Lyserg Diethel decided to return to his home country. On the way, he stops to visit an old friend.


**_content edited as of April 11, 2011; author's note added to bottom._**

* * *

Lyserg Diethel, who turned twenty-seven in four and a half months, stood in front of a large and rather intimidating building. With a tight ball of nervousness in his stomach, her entered. Inside, it was just as impressive.

He approached the front desk.

"Where can I find the Lightman Group?"

The woman behind the desk looked up from her magazine and said, "Floors twelve through fifteen."

He thanked her and proceeded to the elevator, the ball getting tighter and tighter with every step he took.

Floor twelve was all glass walls – frosted glass, Cal Lightman had good taste – and grays. The woman behind the desk here looked much kinder than the one he had spoken to earlier.

"Is Doctor Lightman in?" he asked. The ball felt like it was going to make him implode.

With a smile, she nodded. "He's in his office. Would you like me to inform him that you're here, Mister. . .?"

"Diethel," he responded with a small smile, "Lyserg Diethel. And yes, please, I'd appreciate that."

With another nod, she picked up the phone that sat on her right. She spoke a few words before putting it down again. Then she addressed the young man in front of her, "Go ahead, Mister Diethel. He's right down the hall, fourth door on your left."

"Thank you," said Lyserg; then, very slowly, he made his way to the office of Cal Lightman.

He hadn't seen the man in more than ten years, since the Tournament begun and Lyserg had officially taken charge of his own life; they had exchanged phone calls and sentiments on occasion.

Lightman had been a bit of a surrogate father to him after the fire. Lyserg had been passed from relative to relative to family friend to distant, four times removed great-aunt to foster home and Lightman had been the only constant, familiar presence who was willing to talk to him (a dowser-detective father did not make for good family relations).

Lightman had been an old friend of his father's and they had met before the fire several times. When Lyserg had run away from Uncle Stephen, he had gone to Lightman. When Great-Aunt Georgia had yelled at him for a full half hour when he was ten, he had gone to Lightman. The year after that, when he decided to join the Tournament, he consulted Lightman.

He owed the man plenty.

He had reached the door. (Spirits, he really _was_ going to implode!)

He knocked.

The first thing he said when he saw Cal Lightman that day was "You look shorter than I remembered."  
Lightman looked momentarily stunned by this impoliteness (but it was true) before hugging Lyserg.

Just about everyone found the collage of faces on Lightman's wall strange. Lyserg Diethel was no exception. It was the first thing he noticed. The second was a picture of a young girl, brunette, who couldn't be more than sixteen, that sat on Lightman's desk behind a picture of a much younger Lyserg.

"Your daughter?" he asked, motioning to the girl's photograph as he sat on the small sofa.

"Yep. Emily."

"She's beautiful."

"Yep," he said, almost-beaming in a way that so far Lyserg had only seen him achieve. It made Lyserg a little jelous.

"So what brings you here?" asked Lightman as he sat beside Lyserg.

"Going back to England. I figured I'd drop by while I was in the country. My plane leaves tomorrow."

"Done anything interesting as of late?"  
"Yeah," said Lyserg, "I learned how to shoot a gun, made some friends, died, came back to life, learned a few life lessons. . ."

Lightman nodded, "Did you find what you were looking for, do what you wanted to do?"

There is a pause before Lyserg answered, "Sort of," before practically spilling his guts (it felt good to talk to someone he knew. The X-Laws and Yoh's gang didn't count).

"So you didn't kill him."

"No. But I tried, thrice. Attacked once in necessary self-defence. Didn't work."

"And so you gave up. Just like that?" asked Lightman in his I-can't-believe-you-just-did-that voice that containted either actual surprise or heavy sarcasm. Lyserg could never tell.

"Oi! He wasn't – isn't – wasn't – sane. It's not fair."

Instead of commenting on the rapid tense change, Lightman clapped him on the shoulder.

"Congratulations. You've grown up."

Lyserg smiled.

"So," Lightman started, shifting topic, "What do you plan to do when you get back?"

He shrugged. "Finish my schooling . . . join Scotland Yard, maybe."

* * *

In this fic, Lyserg's natural hair color is brown. . .ish, and it is green because he lost a bet. Lightman knows better than to ask why he is sporting the odd hairdo.


End file.
